Chapter 26
Whitley received the rebuke with an almost unnatural level of composure.
And, to Mr. S, that was the worst of it. The way the child seemed to weigh the admonition as nothing more than a bad outcome, and seemed to care even less for how his actions placed him in the eyes of others.
And, for once, Mr. S was unusually sensitive to the level of his ignorance regarding his situation. Perhaps, he gathered, this sensitivity arose in him because of his still wounded parental instincts, and, perhaps, it was that undercurrent of sadness that kept him from speaking directly about it. All sons, he knew, looked up to their fathers, and this child, he was sure, was no different. So, he doubted it would play well if he tried to change course and act like Mr. Nice all of a sudden. But, he also refused to consider acting as callously as he'd witnessed Whitley doing.
So, it was with great effort that Mr. S recovered himself in the ensuing silence of his outburst and turned to Whitley to announce: "Whitley, you are no longer the heir."
That had gotten to the boy; and a sudden wave of silence carried through the various servants scattered throughout the room.
Despite his best efforts, it seemed impossible for Mr. S to be sensitive enough to the nature of his station. The myriad eyes looked upon the pair; and Whitley, eyes wide and nostrils arching, looked to be almost on the verge of tears at the pronouncement.
"May I be excused, father?" he said, voice weakening.
"You may," Mr. S granted, and watched as the boy pushed away his plate, pushed back his chair, and, riding on quick steps, left the dining room.
Mr. S leant back in his chair in silence, cursing how he couldn't even eat to take his mind off the sudden, revolting level of attention he'd gathered from the rest of the room.
Ruby, ever the disaster relief artist, tried to lighten the mood by changing the topic to something more child-friendly.
Politics.
"So, uh, Mr. Schnee, I hear you're very rich." Ruby said, awkwardly stretching out a conversational oar to Mr. S, who seemed to be on the verge of drowning in the flood of stares he'd once again attracted to himself.
Mr. S was very glad to take it, thinking very highly of the girl who'd extended it to him. "I'm not quite as rich as people like to say, but yes, I guess I am in control of a lot of money."
Ruby replied, "So, have you ever thought of… giving some of it away?"
Mr. S started to think less highly of the girl, but consoled himself by saying that her request was hardly extraordinary.
"Are you asking for money?" he asked, chuckling slightly.
"Oh, no!" Ruby hastily corrected in that soft voice of hers. "I was just thinking how much it might help people if everyone donated their money to a charity."
"Oh, what a world that would be," Mr. S said, speaking in that tone all adults took on whenever they didn't quite feel like crushing a child's hopes that day. "I'm sure a lot of people would be benefited."
Rejoicing at the unexpected sense of encouragement she was getting from the man, Ruby suddenly took control of the conversation like an excited waterspout. "Oh, I know! That's why I thought of it!" Ruby said, chuckling shiftly. "Of course, I know people actually wouldn't do that, because, ya know, we live in the real world! Haha!" Ruby rapped her knuckles on her skull in mock admonishment. "But, you know, I had this idea, that… uh, maybe the government could just take everyone's money, and… uh, give it back out so that everyone had the same amount! That way, not only would it be good for the poor, it would also help society… because the government can just spend that money for everyone's benefit."
Ruby spoke the latter half of her manifesto with clumsily integrated professionalism, breaking up her words and motioning with her hands as if working with particularly stubborn clay.
Yang, meanwhile, was gently acquainting her face with her palm.
Mr. S rapidly felt his opinion of the girl plummeting, because, as he mentally denounced it: This girl was a goddamn communist!
Of course, with his words, he was far less confrontational, not least of which because he'd seen her heft a fifty pound sniper rifle like it was an empty tote bag.
And so he said, "Oh, you're a communist," like a mildly offended housewife.
"What's a communist?" Ruby asked.
"It's what you are." Mr. S answered shortly.
Ruby raised her eyebrows, looked up, and mulled over the word for a moment. And, after a moment's thought, she decided that, despite never having heard the word before, she liked it.
Mr. S, for his part, looking at the dinner table and seeing it filled with ex-terrorist, communists, and potentially, a traitor, decided he wanted out.
He thought for a moment about what to say to announce his departure, but, looking back at the recent history of him and his big mouth, decided simply to push his chair back, stand up, and leave.
Schwarz, not looking up from her tablet, moved to follow.
The men had escaped haphazardly from the arms store, carrying torn bags, and shying away from the trails of exposed fire dust they left in their wake. One of them slipped on a muddy patch, revealing, by the slight imprints and hair samples he'd left behind, that he'd been a dog faunus. Possibly white fang, Melva deduced, eyes glowing as they traced over the invisible lines of conduct which breached out into the world.
McGarnagle stood next to her, intimidating at the passersby as if he were keeping watch.
Melva paid them no attention, focusing the spear of her attention onto the muddy patch below her.
"See anything?" McGarnagle asked.
"They came scrambling out of that alley," Melva pointed precisely to the spot behind her, not looking away from the evidence. "Obviously they weren't professionals, or at least very new to this." She indicated the trail of dust that had spilled out behind them during their hasty retreat. "Possibly, they were White Fang."
McGarnagle was surprised to hear this. The White fang had little hold in Solitas, much less in Mantle. "What makes you think it was White fang?" he asked.
"Dog Faunus," Melva said, pointing to the muddy patch by way of explanation. McGarnagle, long familiar with her way of reasoning, didn't question it.
"So, you think Adam's behind this?" McGarnagle asked.
"Dunno," Melva shrugged, "I mean, he arrives here one day, and twelve hours later the White Fang conducts a stealth hit on a dust store. Seems like they'd be connected."
McGarnagle growled. It was a particular growl, one which Melva had grown used to, and which indicated great discomfort in the man.
"What is it?" Melva asked, still scanning her eyes across the distant borders of the crime scene.
"Adam's rushing. This wasn't a carefully planned operation, it was a smash grab for whatever they could get."
"So?" Melva said. "That just means they make more mistakes."
"It also means he's desperate. He's not acting rationally."
"Hey, how would you act if your greatest enemy stole your girlfriend?" Melva scoffed.
"This isn't a joke. Desperate men are dangerous, and I have a feeling he's not feeling very patient either."
"You think he might try something soon?"
"I think he's going to try something very big, very soon."
"Hm," Melva was stoic about the matter. "Then we better catch him soon," she said, finally looking away from the evidence. "And I think I know where our next lead might be."
"Where?"
"The dog faunus," she began, feeling unusually generous with her explanation, "He pressed his rifle into the mud when he fell here, I can read the serial number."
"What does it say?"
"It's only a partial transcription, but I recognize the manufacturer's code. It's the small-time armory on thirty-third, next to the mortuary."
Mantle, by law, had set a limit on the number of guns that could be kept within city limits. Many of these guns were stored in the town armory, alongside a meticulous record of all the firearms in the city.
There were ways to avoid this limit. For instance, one might set up several puppet corporations, buy a certain amount of guns for export and then… not export them, and instead hide the guns that you'd bought inside city limits. That way, city hall wouldn't count the "exported" guns, and therefore wouldn't realize that you were building a massive weapons store inside city limits.
This was, of course, illegal, and therefore against the law.
But, the Atlas Branch of The White Fang didn't care at all about the law, and Adam cared even less than them, somehow.
This difference, naturally, led to some tension.
Matilda was a hard faunus to crack, as Adam's intensifying probes against her iron mask discovered.
"We need to strike now!" Adam paced back and forth before the woman's desk, with every round exciting the guards posted in the back corner of Matilda's office. "We need to hit them while they're vulnerable!"
"So vulnerable that you couldn't even muster a single strike against the man while you had him cornered in his own office?" Matilda's calm voice was laced with poison, despite the dispassionate gaze she'd locked onto the now still Adam. "Is Mister Schnee so vulnerable now, that you feel the need to turn tail and lick your wounds in my hideout?" Adam, she could see, was snarling. She didn't care. "Forget it, Adam, you have no authority over anyone here, least of all me. I'll overlook your blatant breach of conduct with that amateurish raid you made on that dust facility, and I'll overlook your recent comments about my leadership, but I'll not overlook any further disruption to my work! If you want to go on this petty vengeance crusade, do it yourself! Otherwise, I suggest you keep your mouth shut until we can arrange for your departure." Throughout her speech, all of her was still, except for the slightest shiver of the green, cat-ears adorning her head.
Adam had remained silent throughout the tirade. In fact, the longer it continued, the more quiet he seemed to grow. This silence was borne with obvious effort on his part, if one were to tell by the now frankly insane look which had overtaken his eye. Still, in the presence of a personage of equal rank, on her territory, he was careful to show the proper respect: which was, to say, very little.
"You've always been so cautious, Matilda," Adam hoarsed. "So cautious, that you've never done anything. So proud of your meek irrelevance, that you think it an accomplishment that no-one in Atlas is aware of your existence."
"I've kept us alive, and I've kept us together." Matilda said, a personal rage shining in her eyes for the first time. "And, whatever you may say about my methods, you haven't faced the challenges I have in Solitas. You've only ever had to parade around playing hero and straining my logistics system. And, yes, those were my guns you were using for all those Years, Adam, no matter how little you want to acknowledge it. But I suppose you won't be needing those anymore, considering the state of the Vale branch these days."
Adam looked uncharacteristically calm. And that worried Matilda.
It worried her all the more when he said, putting a delicate hand on his sword handle, "I'll thank you for the guns, they were useful to me. Perhaps you can be useful to me for a last time, as well."
"Guards," she stood suddenly. "Escort Adam from my office immediately!"
And, without pause or hesitation, the Guards flexed their fingers from their guns, stepped forward from their posts, and grabbed Matilda by either arm, forcing her onto the floor.
"What's the meaning of this! Guards!" Matilda shouted, looking up at Adam from where she'd been pushed to her knees.
"Caution doesn't always lead to safety," Adam said, having pulled his sword blade and holding it before his face, studying the edge. "You should know that, given your experience."
Matilda didn't bother responding, struggling fully now against the tight fisted grip the guards maintained on her arms.
"Sometimes, caution only leads to frustration - " Adam moved, positioning the blade for a down swing " - especially amongst the brave faunus who've had the displeasure to serve underneath your vision."
"What is the meaning of this!?" Matilda repeated indignant, now fully shouting to the outside world.
"The meaning is what you make of it," Adam shrugged. "In any case, you will no longer be heading the Atlas Branch, Matilda."
Adam brought the sword down.
Torchwick felt his spirits going up!
Having stepped off the bullhead and into the fresh, arctic, Mantle air, Torchwick was quickly reconsidering his formerly lowly opinion of the city.
"Ya know, Neo! Mantle isn't so bad!" Torchwick walked along with a springing smile, waving his cane jauntily to every passerby that seemed to catch his eye. "Sure, the weather isn't as nice as Minstrel, and the ice-cream sucks, but, hey, It's got a certain character about it. I like these old towns, they've got history." Without pausing, he stepped easily into the White fang headquarters, walking past the familiar halls and waving knowingly to all the right people.
"And, ya-know what else, Neo?" Torchwick continued. "This place has something that Vale doesn't: peace. I tell ya, this is the one town I can sleep in without having to line my bedroom door with lime. And that's all because of Matilda. You know her, right? That's actually her office over there!" He pointed to the door they were heading towards. "Bless her heart, she's such a nice lady. I kind of always feel bad about stealing from this place-"
Torchwick opened the door into Matilda's office and felt a cold splash as he stepped onto a shallow pool of something viscous.
With his experience, Torchwick instantly knew that it was either blood, or a really thin milkshake.
Glancing down, Torchwick once again confirmed for himself what Neo knew all along as she looked down at the scene, head shaking sadly: nobody ordered milkshakes in Mantle.
Torchwick's response, despite his experience, was similarly heartfelt.
"Holy, fucking, cr-!"
"Crap!" McGarnagle spat, walking away from the Armory and the less than helpful data clerks which staffed it.
"Yeah, that was pointless," Melva stood next to him, nodding in appreciation of the fact. "Although," she suddenly turned with a casual shrug, "I'm not really sure what you expected."
"I expect them to do their jobs!" McGarnagle stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, spotting an absence in the traffic he could pass through.
As he crossed, McGarnagle was met by an opposing current of people who'd been waiting on the other side, while he himself was carried along by the flood of bodies emerging from his own.
It was a messy and classically Mantle street crossing, one that left everyone involved confused as to how exactly they made it across in one piece. McGarnagle, however, on this occasion, was left unfazed, occupied as he was with his most recent observation.
"What?" Melva asked, looking up at him and noticing the thoughtful look that had crossed his face.
"That man," he looked over to indicate a mustachioed figure wearing a shimmering waistcoat over a plain white dress shirt.
Melva observed the man as he traversed the crosswalk and stepped into the mortuary. "What about him?" she asked. "I guess he's dressed nice for Mantle, but it makes enough sense considering his line of work."
"He's been watching us." McGarnagle took out his notepad, flipping through the pages for the appropriate entry.
"Everyone's watching you," Melva said, unimpressed, "you're a walking shade-ordinance violation."
"But not everyone went through the crosswalk to avoid us." McGarnagle said, flipping his notebook closed and slipping it into his coat-pocket. He turned and started walking towards the mortuary.
"What?" Melva leapt after him, catching with far quicker steps. "So what, he used a crosswalk? People do that, you know?"
"You haven't spent enough time in Mantle," McGarnagle retorted, crossing back over the street, and setting his sights firmly on the mortuary ahead.
Torchwick was patently unhappy with the situation.
First of all, the blood of his preferred White Fang commander was now staining his new suede shoes, and they weren't any old cheap, Vacuo knockoffs, either. And, somehow worse than that, was the fact that Adam had, miraculously, made himself king of this particular hill. Seriously, the guy had no charisma; it was an insoluble mystery to Torchwick how he kept climbing the stupid ladder!
Still, Torchwick was one to respect brute power, especially when the guy wielding it was standing in front of him.
"Adam!" Torchwick greeted with a happy face, "am I glad to see you!" He stopped suddenly to look around himself at the warehouse floor; several metal tanks of dust were being carefully filled by the mulling workers. "I love what you've done with the place!" he commented, gesturing at a nearby inspector. "It's really a lot more active than I've seen it before. And, you know, don't tell anyone this, but I really prefer you to Mati-"
"Get to the point," Adam scowled.
"Hey, no need to be so impatient; we're on your side, here," Torchwick said easily. "We're here to kill the big man, too."
"Right," Adam said expressionlessly, "and what do you want?"
"Me?" Torchwick gestured to himself, "oh, nothing. But, my benefactor is rather interested in how you managed to make contact with Raven."
"I talked to her," Adam deadpanned.
"And don't let anyone say you don't have a way with women, Adam. But, we were hoping for something a bit more substantive regarding the matter. Raven is a rather difficult bird to find, after all."
"She's not a very helpful one, either."
"She helped you." Torchwick noted.
"If you can call that helping."
"Whatever you want to call it, we'd still like her information." Torchwick was anxious now, to get to the point.
"You can have it," Adam said. "After you're done helping me."
"But…" Torchwick started with tentative confusion, "we will be helping you if we get Raven's contact. We're trying to use her to off Mr. Schnee-"
"I don't care about Schnee," Adam turned away. "I want Blake."
"You miss her that much?"
"So that I can kill her myself!" Adam swung his sword, sparking through a metal handrail, and leaving the entire structure ringing.
"And you'll have her," Torchwick promised, "we just need Raven's information first."
"You'll have it after I have Blake," Adam said, voice hollow with reserved calm. "I know what your promises are worth, Torchwick. And I know you'll leave here the moment Schnee drops dead, whether I have Blake or not, so I'm going to make this easy for you. Help me, and I'll give you the information you want. Refuse, and you can leave here empty handed."
Internally, Torchwick cursed.
Outwardly, he smiled. "Well, how can I refuse such a generous offer! Where do we start?"
The city of Mantle, not being confined to a floating block of land, was quite spread out over it's claimed territory. And while, for administrative purposes, it was considered as one entity, it's inhabitants generally took the trouble to divide it into five sub-cities. Many times, these sub-cities could be separated from one another by quite substantial lengths of undeveloped tundra. But, as a whole, the four central cities were generally clustered together along the coastline just south of Atlas.
The fifth city, in this matter, was the outlier. It inhabited a prime piece of real estate several miles inland, having been located there for the excellent defensive qualities of the local purposes.
In the administrative records, the fifth sub-city was not given a name, being considered totally a part of Mantle proper. Colloquially, however, it was known, popularly, as The City of The Damned.
This was because of its primary business, the storage of dead bodies. Despite the negative associations left behind by the former empire, it was a generally agreed upon axiom that… if funerals could not be banned, they should, at least, be contained.
Thus, the small frontier town had an economy centered around the City's only mortuary. For related reasons, Mantle's armory was located nearby. Beyond that, there was little in the town except the bar, the hotel, the chapel, the grimm-defence grid for whenever there was a funeral, and, of course, the secret White Fang base.
So, considering everything, it was perhaps forgivable to think it strange that, of all these things, the mortuary would be the one under police investigation.
"Whaaat!" the mortuary warden said, sweating, and speaking in what, on Earth, would have been considered a comically thick Parisian accent. "I am not, how you say, guilty of anything! What proof do you have that I, the illustrious warden of this estate, have done anything wrong!"
"We're not accusing you of anything," Melva stepped forward, "we just want to ask if you've seen any suspicious activity in the area."
"I have seen nothing 'ere! This is a quiet town, filled with drunks and mourners." The man complained, gesturing out to beyond the doors they'd just walked through. Through the arc of his movements, could be seen the subtle sheen of his waistcoat.
"And we believe you," Melva smiled.
"I don't," McGarnagle groused. "This man is a criminal."
If anything, that comment seemed only to upset the man.
So, naturally, Melva ignored his loud retort. She set her eyes alight and set to looking about the room.
All around her, stood numerous shelving units, each one six feet deep, several dozen feet high, and running the length of the mortuary. And the lower units, a passing glance revealed, were far sturdier than they had any right to be, considering their expected cargo.
Melva walked unhesitatingly toward a shelf. Gently moving her hand, she pressed the back of it lightly against the wood-face of the slot door that guarded the unit. Slowly, she pressed her hand forward against the oak, increasing the pressure. Pained creaks sounded through the now dead-silence of the room, thick oak bending away under her fist like cheap plywood until, with a thundercrack of failure, the door broke inward, and Melva pushed her hand into the space.
Not wasting a moment, Melva brought her hand back out, a heavy grind accompanying the motion as a large coffin emerged from the dark interior, it's brass handle firmly in her grip. Stepping back, she pulled the coffin along with her until the head of it slipped past the edge of the containment unit, falling to the ground with a deafening crash. A heavy crack accompanied the landing, the coffin jumping in place as it's bottom broke.
This action, if anything, seemed only to upset the warden further.
"What is the meaning of this! You-you inestimable morons!" The warden shouted, his accent creeping up to new heights. "Have you no capacity for shame!? Coming here to disturb my bodies, when there are perfectly eligible corpses you could dig up outside!"
Melva was unfazed. "Tell me," she said, kicking the coffin and eliciting a metallic jingle from it, "do you get many bodies weighing five thousand pounds?"
At that, the warden turned to surprise. "What? This must be a mistake!"
McGarnagle knelt down and threw the coffin cover out to the side.
Underneath, glimmering in the limelight, was a veritable ocean of bullets.
Calmly, they both looked to the Warden for explanation.
The warden, himself now glimmering with sweat, shrugged at the request. "These…uh, are not live rounds!"
"Adam, stop it, ya mad man! At least wait for the rest of them to arrive!" Torchwick shouted down at the scene from the parapets, watching the miniature civil war play out on the warehouse floor below.
Well, Torchwick vacillated, perhaps Civil War was too grandiose a term, considering the scale of it. Well, that and how terribly Matilda's loyalists seemed to be doing.
Torchwick sighed as Adam decapitated yet another kneeling figure. And, he found that he couldn't really spare too much pity for the loyalists. Really, they'd broken all the rules, as far as Torchwick saw them. First of all, they sent logistics planners and lawyers to fight against Adam. Secondly, they didn't win. And, thirdly, they actually tried to fight for a leader who was already dead!
Torchwick never really saw the point of martyrdom. And, wincing as he observed yet another execution, he wasn't finding the appeal of it now, either.
"Adam, come on, we need that guy! He has all the pass- Oh, and he's dead!" Torchwick rubbed his temple as he leaned forward on the handrail. Next to him, Neo struggled with the local wifi password, having just missed her chance to ask the only guy who knew.
"Ya know, neo," Torchwick said without looking in her direction. "Do you think the Schnee's have as much trouble coordinating as we seem to? I mean, I can respect their business, but they've also got a nice little enterprise with the government going there. That takes coordination, you know... sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to go straight like that." He watched dispassionately as yet another body was cut short. "Probably less murder," he noted.
Neo continued to frustratedly tap away at her scroll.
"Yeah, what am I saying," Torchwick conceded. " Who cares what they think! They're all just a bunch of racists anyway."
"Look, she's not racist, ok?" Weiss said with a puff of exasperation, "I've known Winter all my life. She's... not like that."
"Then why can't we introduce your girlfriend to her?" Yang, walking along directly behind Weiss, asked with a growing smirk.
"Because she's busy!" Weiss flared, turning back suddenly to face Yang, who was all but laughing now as Blake glared at her for her antics.
Past the laughter, however, Weiss thought she heard something that she hadn't heard for a long time.
"Uh… you guys go ahead without me," she said, turning to look down the side passage, "I'll catch up in a minute."
"But Schwarz said we had to stick-"
"I said I'll catch up in a minute!" Weiss said, "Just, I have to do something!"
Although concerned, the team was quick to move on, though not without several, very loud, pronouncements of their well wishes for her. It seemed they'd taken Schwarz's new security measures a mite too seriously.
Weiss, to console them, quickly waved back with promises to be, "just right back," and watched as they disappeared behind the far corner.
In the following loneliness, Weiss was now certain that she'd heard what she'd thought she'd heard. There, coming from that private hallway they'd used to hide in when they were children, was the sound of sobbing. Tentatively, Weiss stepped through, keeping her steps silent as she peeked around the entrance way, watching as Whitley, with his back to her, and leaning with his hand against the far wall, tried to stifle the sound of his crying. Weiss thought she heard him muttering something under his breath, but couldn't make it out.
Weiss stood there for the longest moment, deciding, after a long moment of indecision, that she ought to leave. Really, there was nothing she could do for him anyway. So, it came as a great surprise to her when she felt her body moving forward in the absence of direction from her mind; and moving less stealthily than she had previously, it seemed.
"What is it?" Whitley asked with a wavering voice, not turning back to look at her. "Come to laugh at me?" he asked, not even bothering to add a hint of admonishment to his words. It was almost as if he didn't expect anything different, Weiss noted.
"No," Weiss said with a quiet demeanor.
"Well, why not!?" Whitley whipped around to face her. "I wouldn't have done any more for you! So, why not laugh at me! Why not laugh at the idiot!"
"Huh," Weiss breathed out with a short sigh. "You're not an idiot," she said. "And I keep telling you that you shouldn't take father's words so seriously. Maybe now's a good time to start."
"Oh, of course you would say that!" Whitley sneered, raising his voice. "You were always his favorite!"
"What!?" Weiss scowled, "what makes you think~!"
"Because he always talked about you!" Whitley turned on her. "Even after he disowned you, you were all he would complain about!" Here Whitley paused, gathering himself befre continuing: "I'm the good child!" he said, desperately, "I've always done the right thing and followed his orders! But you-" he pointed at Weiss, moving in her direction, "you've always just done whatever you wanted! You get to run away from home and insult anyone you want and you still get all his attention! You still get his respect! And, why shouldn't you! It's not like you're in danger of being forgotten!"
"I don't have his respect." Weiss denied.
"Oh, is that why, despite everything, you still get the courtesy of being disinherited in private? I speak out once, and he dresses me down in front of everyone!
"I mean, How can I be the only eligible child left, yet still not be granted the rank of heir! It's not fair!"
Whitley's voice was wavering like a badly tuned instrument, and tears seemed to stain the back of his words as he turned away from Weiss, wiping his eyes with his forearm. In the midst of this motion, he mumbled something which was muffled by the cloth that rubbed over his nose.
"What was that?" Weiss asked.
"I said I'm sorry!" Whitley said. "About what I said earlier. I was just trying to impress dad. Apparently, I shouldn't have bothered with you in the room."
Weiss pinched her brow and breathed out a long sigh through her nostrils. "Look, I'll accept that apology because I'm your sister, and because I can see you're distressed. But, If you can't muster a better one to Blake by tomorrow, I'm going to throw you out a window."
"Whatever," Whitley said, in that tone of voice Weiss had always known to mean, "ok." And he sat down on the floor next to her, leaning back against a nearby wall.
And, Weiss, careful to fix her skirt, sat on the ground next to him, basking in their communal silence. The hum of the palace airconditioning was distant and nostalgic against the background.
And, they were content to sit quietly, for the present moment.
After a while, an idea sparked in her mnd. "Do you remember," Weiss said, "when we were children, we always used to hide here from Winter?"
"Kind of," Whitley said, furrowing his brows, "honestly, I thought that was a dream."
"Yeah, you were probably too young to remember," Weiss said. "But, I used to hide here all the time. Winter would never find me."
"She probably wasn't looking," Whitley said with a snort.
Weiss rolled her eyes.
"Besides, what was I doing here if I was so young?" Whitley asked.
"Well," Weiss said, voice growing sheepish, "I may have been hiding here sometimes for less innocent reasons. Like that time I accidentally broke mom's vase and needed a place to stay."
"And, what does that have to do with me?"
"Well, I thought, maybe if mom found me, she wouldn't hit me if I was holding you.'
"Haha, I knew that wasn't a dream! You're terrible!" Whitley said fully laughing now, hunched over. "Besides, since when did mom care so much about anything?"
And, for several reasons, Weiss felt a profound sadness.
"You know, Whitley, things were different back then. Father, was different back then?"
"What, are these the mystical happy times?" He said, a defensive irony wrapping his words.
"No… they weren't happy. It was just… we felt like a family, I guess?"
"Was it like when he came home on my sixth's birthday?"
"No," Weiss said, remembering and scrunching her brows. "I know what you're talking about," Weiss preempted Whitley protests, "and I remember he became... less horrible after that, but he was really different before you turned three."
"So, what? He used to be nice, turned evil, but then got better but not really? And I grew up just in time to miss out on his kinder days?"
"No… I mean, yes. He did use to be better before you were three. Then, he told mom he didn't care, then when you turned six he… just turned off I guess. I suppose that's the nicest you remember him being. You really kind of missed out in your formative years."
"Don't forget to rub it in." Whitley stoked.
Weiss was silent for a moment, but then braved the silence.
"Have… you noticed that father's been acting strange?" Weiss asked, turning to Whitley.
Whitley breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought that was just me!" he said.
"Huh," Weiss said.
"What?"
"You know, I think... there's a reason for his change in behavior, and I think it has to do with whatever was going on during your third and sixth birthdays."
"Ok?"
"And I want you to help me find out," Weiss said, putting a hand on the shoulder of Whitley.
"What!" Whitley was incensed, "I'm not a detective! And neither are you!"
"We don't have to be, Whitley!" Weiss was adamant. "We have complete access to the Schnee family files, and we know our father better than anyone in the world. If he has a secret, there's no one better than us to investigate!"
"Secret? What makes you think there's a secret?"
"Everyone has secrets, Whitley!" Weiss admonished as if she were stating the obvious. "And I know there's nothing that could change his behavior so drastically without us knowing what it was, unless he was hiding it from us."
"Well, even so, I'm not sure father would appreciate us snooping through his business."
"Would you stop for one second!" Weiss stood up, exasperatedly looking down at the still sitting Whitley. "I mean, you've done everything he's ever wanted for all your life, and what has that gotten you?"
Whitley, still looked hesitant.
"Huh, look. Can you just promise you won't tell father what's going on?" She reached out a hand.
"I promise," Whitley looked seriously into her eyes and took it.
"They're investigating us, Adam! Do you hear me! They're investigating us!"
Torchwick was yelling with earnest frustration, waving his scroll around with every gesture as he paced just behind Adam's back, desperately trying to capture the man's interest.
Adam, though he heard the man, was more captivated by the string of targets that had been laid out in front of him. A meditative calm seemed, at all times, to be present in his body. As he swung out another flash of energy, a silent hollowness rang through him. When the shot connected with the target, body burning, an adopted calm. And, even when he pressed his sword against the running angle grinder, sparks flying and arm rattling, a charge bursting through him, he wasn't at all disturbed. The cacophony of screeching metal seemed a world away, unimportant, as he focused on channeling the energy into himself.
Torchwick, lifting his cane hand to press closed his left ear, was far less impressed with the spectacle.
"Are you even listening to me!?" He shouted, barely hearing himself over the crackling metal and facing himself to look away from the searing, red glow which had taken Adam's blade.
Suddenly, Adam flashed his arm to the side, sheathing his sword in a ready stance as the glow hid itself and the noise depressed to a more manageable level.
"I'm listening," Adam said, sounding as if he'd trained his focus elsewhere.
"They're investigating the morgue!" Torchwick yelled. "Do you know how many years it took us to set that store up!? Not to mention, it's literally right around the corner!" Torchwick gestured in the direction of the mortuary, on the other side of town.
Adam slashed out another shot, and returned his sword to the grinder. Torchwick stood impatiently, leaning on his cane and resting a hand on his hip until, once again, Adam returned to the ready stance.
"Well, gathered your thoughts?" Torchwick said with a strained smile. "Any idea what we're supposed to do with this?"
"We finish our plan before they finish investigating," Adam answered, just in time to take another shot. And returning his sword to the grinder just in time to drown out Torchwick's ensuing rant.
"Are you crazy!" Torchwick raised both hands into the air with a hopeless gesture. "That's not a plan! That's barely a suicide pact! Do you have any idea what's at stake here, Adam!? If they find the Atlas Branch, then we're fucked! Do you head me? Fucked! After this is over, you can forget about guns, you'll have enough trouble supplying your troops with toilet paper! Ships are going to get confiscated over this, Adam! Do you have any idea how hard it's going to be to get more smugglers on our side when Atlas uses this info to blow up the Broduers?"
A certain calm suddenly found Torchwick when Adam, once again, assumed silence.
"Oh," Torchwick said, epiphytic. "You know all of this, don't you? You just don't care."
Adam was silent, focusing on his last target. Soon, he straightened, arm swinging naturally out, and toppled the last stake - as well as the faunus tied to it.
Torchwick, having finally taken his eyes of the man, found himself in a better position to notice the bloodstained hillsides which Adam had just finished excavating. Broken stakes and broken bodies littered it's damaged surface.
"Agh!" Torchwick spat in frustration, "could you stop killing people? White Fang morale isn't exactly soaring through the roof even without you playing executioner! Besides, I'm pretty sure these lot weren't even loyalists."
"There are loyalists among them. We just need to keep the revolts down until tomorrow. After that…" Adam shrugged, sheathed his sword, and turned away from the sight.
"Yeah, yeah, let me just get one of my contacts to clean this up, not that we can use the mortuary anymore, mind," Torchwick griped, pulling out his scroll.
"No," Adam held out a hand. "Let the men bury the bodies in the tundra. They need to see, first hand, the consequences."
"The consequences of what!? These guys didn't even do anything!" Torchwick gesticulated madly in the direction of the bodies.
"The consequences of displeasing me."
"Yeah, yeah, sure, I'll let them know," Torchwck didn't bother hiding his eyerolls. "Oh, and by the way, you've been here for a couple of days, right?"
"Yes, what of it?" Adam took an annoyed tone.
"Do you know where I can get some lime?"
